The Harrowing

CHAPTER SEVEN

Robin was the first to put the letters together. The word felt alien in her mouth.

“Qlippoth?”

Martin looked up from his back table with sudden interest.

In the hearth, the logs crackled and popped, sending showers of sparks up the chimney flue. The shadows of flames rippled on the walls.

Lisa nodded hesitantly at the pronunciation, guessing rather than knowing Robin was right. The others stared around at one another in the flickering light, mystified.

“Take me to your leader,” Patrick intoned, zombielike. The joke fell somewhat flat, everyone still unnerved.

Lisa pressed her ringed fingers into the planchette, spoke into the darkness, her tone falsely bright. “How about in English, Zach?”

The silence was too thick as the planchette circled. Robin could actually feel everyone in the room leaning forward as she and Lisa spoke the words.

Robin was peripherally aware of Martin being very still in the back, staring at Lisa.

Lisa looked at Robin. “The shells? Do you mean the shelves?”

“The beach?” Patrick guessed. Cain spoke dryly from the couch. “There was a doo-wop group in the fifties—Clam Chowder and the Shells.”

Patrick snickered, partly in relief at the break in tension, Robin thought. Lisa glared toward both boys. Then the girls jumped as the indicator moved again, unbidden.

Again, Robin could feel the guys leaning forward in the silence to hear. Lisa read the words aloud, somewhat short of breath.

Robin stared down at the board, felt another prickle of foreboding. The pointer moved again, almost jauntily.

The unexpected joke relaxed them all. Robin and Lisa smiled across at each other.

Patrick groaned from the floor. “Ahh, don’t encourage her.”

Lisa laughed, reassured, and flirted back at Zachary. “In that case, at least tell us what you look like.”

Robin could feel a change in the quality of the movement under her hands… a playful sensuality.

Lisa laughed again, harder than was really called for. She vamped, a la Mae West. “Well then, come up and see me sometime.”

Always the tease, aren’t you? Robin thought. Just can’t help yourself.

Lisa caught Robin’s gaze in the yellow light. Her eyes narrowed, and suddenly there was an edge in her voice, a challenge. “You ask something.”

Robin hesitated, torn between desire and distrust.

Lisa gave her no quarter. “Okay, then I will.” She reached for the pointer, raised her voice. “Zachary, tell us. Is Robin a virgin?”

Robin froze. She saw Patrick choke on his beer… and, behind him, Cain rolling his eyes.

She flushed. “All right, just stop.” She started to withdraw her hands from the pointer, but Lisa put her hands firmly on top of Robin’s, holding her there, smiling wickedly.

The planchette began to move. Robin’s face was hot, but somehow she couldn’t make herself let go. She stared at the letters as they materialized.

She jolted, recognizing the bit of poem she had been thinking of as she held the pills in her hand.

Am I doing this? She wondered, disoriented.

Lisa read the sentence out, quirking her eyebrows—whether in mockery or pleased surprise, it was hard to tell.

Patrick murmured from the floor, “Oh, baby.” Robin turned crimson, but through the rush of blood in her ears, she recognized a note in his voice she hadn’t quite heard before: appreciation. Her heart fluttered. Maybe…maybe there is hope.

Lisa widened her eyes at Robin. She raised her voice brightly. “How romantic of you, Zachary. The rest of you clowns should be taking notes.”

Robin was surprised to detect an undertone of grudging jealousy. Jealous of what? Robin stared across at her, her mind racing. Is she spelling things out? Am I?

Lisa caught her eyes, leaned forward slightly. “See, he likes you. Come on.” She held Robin’s eyes, seductive, appeasing.

After a moment, Robin put her hands back on the planchette, by now far too intrigued to stop.

Lisa looked around the room, reenergized. “Anyone? Questions?”

A moment of silence, then Patrick volunteered, without moving from the floor. “Okay, Zach, old man.” He paused portentously. “Will I pass history?”

On the couch, Cain audibly snorted. Robin heard Martin in the back muttering under his breath, “In your dreams.”

They were listening then, just as present as she was.

The indicator jerked slightly under her hands, and she blinked back to the board, staring at the letters as they formed.

Robin was no longer surprised how quickly and smoothly the board was spelling out the messages, it seemed natural, inevitable.

Lisa read out the words, and Cain half-laughed. “The cosmic fortune cookie.”

But Robin noticed that he had been intent on Lisa’s words. His magazine lay forgotten on the floor beside the couch. You’re into it. Not a complete cynic after all.

Patrick was speaking, and she was instantly attentive again as he called out, “How, Zach? You gonna take it for me?”

And Robin realized that something had changed. The tone of Patrick’s voice was easy, companionable; he was talking to the board the way he would talk to a person.

And there was something else, as well. She could feel the house listening. As completely absorbed in and amused by the conversation as the rest of them were.

You’re stoned, she told herself.

The planchette was moving under her hands, and Lisa read with it.

Patrick pointed a little hazily at the board, his words slurred. “You’re on, dude. Eleven o’clock next Friday, right, Rob?”

The pointer jerked simply to

And Robin felt a stab of apprehension.

Across the table, Lisa’s eyes were bright, almost feverish. She saw Robin looking at her, and looked away quickly, as if caught. She turned in her chair to speak to the room. “Someone ask something none of us would know,” she demanded. There was a dark sense of urgency under her words.

Patrick lolled his head back against the edge of the couch, swigged his beer. “What’s my mother’s maiden name?” he offered.

Behind him on the couch, Cain rolled his eyes again. “It’s not an ATM machine.”

The board was already spelling out a name.

Lisa spoke it. “Cole.”

Patrick sat up. “Hey. That’s right.” The others looked around at one another. Now Patrick actually stood, struggling to his feet, swaying a little as he crossed to the table. He looked down at the board, then at Lisa. “You’ve been checking up on me, Marlowe.” But his voice didn’t have its usual tone of light banter.

Lisa tipped back in her chair and looked up at him, defiant. “I don’t know your first name, cowboy.”

Patrick looked at Robin now. His smile was broad, but there was uncertainty in it, too. “Okay, Robin— you wormed it out of Waverly.”

Robin shook her head. Her eyes met his, and for a moment she saw something. Fear?

Patrick laughed a little weakly.

Lisa turned in her chair, looked over at Cain, challenging. “Your turn. Ask.”

Robin had expected a protest. Instead, it was rather dizzying how immediately Cain spoke. His voice was flat, but there was an urgency beneath.

“How did my mother die?”

Robin’s eyes jumped to his, startled, and she saw his set gray gaze for an instant.

It’s started. It’s got us. Quick wild thoughts…

Then the pointer jerked to life. Across the board, Lisa sounded the words out.

Robin drew in a sharp breath. On the couch, Cain was very still. The shadows from the fire leapt wildly on the walls.

Then Cain spoke softly, and the fury of his words dug into Robin’s chest. “That’s fucking clever, Marlowe.”

Lisa shoved back her chair. “Hey. I don’t know what that means.”

Cain looked angry and lost all at once, and Robin knew. It’s true, then. Something really bad happened. How did Lisa know?

And if Lisa didn’t know?

Robin looked at the board. The indicator was still, poised above

She shivered, chilled. Something had changed. There had been a sudden turn of corner. What’s happening?

Her eyes drifted to the edge of the board, the burn marks there, as if somewhere, sometime, the board had burst into flame.

Lisa pushed her hair back, her bracelets clinking faintly. “Somebody ask something else.” She stared around at all of them.

Patrick stood in front of the fireplace, legs braced. “Okay, Zach. What am I thinking right now?”

Even before the planchette started to move, Robin felt a pull of something—fathomless. No! she thought—but too late. Lisa was leaning forward, edgy and tense, breathing out the letters as they came.

Robin gasped as she realized the message.

The logs popped in the hearth, showering sparks. Patrick towered over them, swaying with alcohol. He spoke quietly, dazed. “Who’s moving that?” Then rage swept through him like wildfire. “I said, Who the fuck is moving that?”

It was so not a game anymore. Patrick was beyond drunk, and so angry, a tidal current of fury. Lisa and Robin both sat frozen at the board. He’s so big, Robin thought, unfocused, as if seeing it for the first time. Steroids. Football. She felt suffocated, unable to breathe.

Cain spoke carefully from the couch, not moving. “Take it easy, man.” His voice was so balanced, Robin leaned into the sound with relief, immediately surrendered the situation to him.

Patrick didn’t seem to hear. His face was ruddy, his accent lower, like an older man’s, thick and snarled, almost incomprehensible. “Marlowe, I swear to Christ I’ll make you eat that board.”

Robin jumped as he started toward the table, tossing a chair out of his way.

Cain was instantly on his feet, faster than Robin would have thought possible, blocking Patrick. She felt a wild rush of fear.

And then Martin’s voice came calmly from the back of the room.

“Actually, that was obvious.”

Patrick wheeled around.

Martin sat very still in his chair. Candles flickered over the books in front of him.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of shit are you talking—”

“Oedipal conflicts run high in the South. Competitive sports are a classic battleground.” Martin tipped back in his chair, nonchalant, almost lofty. Robin’s pulse spiked with alarm. Oh, careful.

But then Martin shrugged, and spoke softly. “And who hasn’t thought about it?”

Patrick stiffened. He looked at the smaller boy with laser eyes, but everyone knew Martin had given him the courtesy of the truth.

The fire simmered in the hearth. The room was very quiet, everyone looking at Martin. When he spoke, his voice was hypnotic in the moving firelight “You’ve got two intelligent women there. Astute enough to pick up on emotional clues.”

Now that the danger was past Lisa came to life again, shoved back in her chair, agitated. “Except that I’m not moving that piece of wood.”

Martin half-smiled, tolerantly, gestured with his pen. “Your subconscious is. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Induce a high state of concentration, and seemingly uncanny thoughts come out.”

Is it? Robin wondered. Is that all there is? Could one of us have known—somehow, intuitively—that Patrick wanted to kill his father, that Cain’s mother died badly?

She looked at Lisa. Lisa caught her eyes, looked quickly away.

Lisa is smart. Under all that posturing, she doesn’t miss a thing.

Cain moved forward, his face tense in the half-light. He looked at Robin, then Lisa. “Ask, then. Ask what’s doing it.”

Lisa scooted her chair back to the table, put her hands on the indicator. After a moment, Robin did, too. Lisa spoke into the dark. “Zachary, are you…reading our minds?”

Robin tensed as the pointer jerked under their fingers. It circled dreamily, not stopping on anything.

Teasing, she thought.

And then at once, decisively, it began to spell. Lisa leaned over the board to read, her hair falling around her face. The pointer scraped through the silence.

NO ONE WHO CONJURES UP THE MOST EVIL

Martin’s sharp voice interrupted Lisa’s reading. “I want everybody to come back here.”

Patrick turned on him, growling. “What the hell—”

Martin spoke over him. “Just do it.” His face was flushed, excited.

Patrick stared back at him in mild disbelief, bristling. Cain stood still; even Robin was surprised at the authority in Martin’s voice. But after a moment, everyone stood and walked across the long room to the table beside the bookshelves.

Martin pointed to the psych text lying open on the tabletop. “Go on, look at the book. And someone read the passage at the top of the page that it’s open to.”

They all looked at one another, then Robin stepped to the edge of the table and read the small print. “‘No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil—’“ She stopped, startled.

The others crowded in closer behind her to see.

Robin glanced at Martin, who nodded. She looked back down at the page and read the whole passage out, more slowly.

“‘No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.’”

The silence was heavy in the shadowed room. Robin saw Patrick’s eyes dart from Martin to Lisa, wary and appraising.

Martin turned and faced them. “Freud. I was just reading that passage before I came over.”

The fire crackled behind them.

Martin looked at the girls. “Pure thought transference. It was in my mind…and you—one of you—picked it out.”

Or Zachary did, Robin wanted to say, but she didn’t. The room was spinning; she felt a vertiginous excitement. She could see Martin’s eyes were shining, the detached academic stance gone.

Cain looked at her across the candlelight. “I heard you say you were in his psych class. You’ve read the same book.”

His face was cold. Robin felt a rush of indignation. “No, I haven’t.” She stared at him.

Martin reached across the table for his legal pad. “We’ll test it. We each write something secret about ourselves and leave it back here. Then we ask the board—and see what happens.”

Cain laughed shortly. “Forget it. I’m out of here.”

He started for the door, a long, lithe stride.

Robin faced him, calling out, “I didn’t set this up.”

Cain turned under the arch of the doorway, looked back at her. Robin stared back at him, and she could feel his hesitation, the question in his gaze.

But then his face closed and he walked out. Robin stood, her face as hot as if she’d been slapped. Be a prick, then, she thought. She was barely aware of Martin speaking impatiently from behind her.

“Doesn’t anyone else want to know what’s going on here?”

Robin turned slowly. Martin was tearing strips of paper off his yellow legal pad. He looked at Lisa, extended a slip of paper and a pen.

Lisa frowned but took the pen and paper.

Patrick strode over to the table. “What the fuck.” He reached for a strip.

Martin turned to Robin. She took the yellow strip, stood for a moment, then reached into her skirt pocket and scribbled quickly with her own purple pen.

Martin was writing, too. He folded up his paper so no one would be able to see what he had written. The others folded theirs, as well.

“Everyone put their papers down on the table,” he directed.

Patrick rolled his eyes in obligatory protest, but they all added their squares of paper to Martin’s.

Now Martin crossed the carpet to the table in front of the fire. The others followed.

How funny—he’s taken total charge, Robin thought. And we’ve let him. Even Patrick. Not such a White Rabbit after all.

Martin stopped in front of the board and looked expectantly at Lisa and Robin. Almost obediently, the girls sat across from each other again. Lisa put her hands on the planchette and Robin followed, with some reluctance.

Martin cleared his throat and then spoke rather formally. “We’d like to ask some questions.”

Patrick and Martin hovered beside the table. Robin could feel everyone holding their breath, but the pointer didn’t move.

Lisa bit her lip. “Zachary?”

The planchette didn’t move at all. Robin’s hands felt heavy and awkward on the wood. Lisa looked across at Robin in the flickering light, and Robin knew she felt it, too.

“Zachary?”

Another long beat, then Lisa shook her head. She took her hands from the pointer, looked at the boys. “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean?” Martin frowned at her.

“There was something there before. An… energy. You could feel it. It’s gone.” She looked at Robin. Robin met her green gaze, nodded.

“Maybe it’s playing hard to get,” Patrick half-joked.

“Let me try,” Martin said abruptly.

He’s really into this, Robin thought uneasily. But she stood, moved back from her chair so he could sit.

Martin sat down across from Lisa, put his fingers on the indicator. He spoke stiffly into the air. “Is…something there?”

Darkness… silence…

Nothing.

Lisa tried again. “Zachary?”

They sat for a long moment, fingers quivering on the wooden pointer.

The wind rushed the building, rattling the windows, whistling through the cracks of the wood, worrying the old bones of the house.

The pointer was completely lifeless.

Lisa looked at Robin again. “Nada. He’s gone.”